Just One Wish
by Zyngry
Summary: When Phoebe moves to Gotham City after her father's death, her life turns upsidedown.No longer is she the queen of the school. And not everyone reacts positively to sharp sarcasm, especially not Jonathan Crane. JCxOC, pre-BB
1. Prologue: Funeral Voices

**A/N: Very short. I know. Forgive me? :D This story is unbetaed (but read and reread by yours truly), so be nice. If anyone is interested in the position feel free to pm me, I don't bite, much xD.**

"Have a good first day, honey," Mrs. Luis almost missed her daughter's cheek as the girl set land records leaving the car. In the past two months everything in her world had changed. She had gone from stay at home soccer mom to a working single mother. She remembered the look on Detective Grover's face and his voice as he asked to come in – funeral voices . . . . . .

_ Sarah Luis lay down on the couch. She had just spent the past three hours in a battle with her youngest son …. He wanted to sleep in her and Paul's bed. The boy had punched, kicked and bitten his way into it, but he was now fast asleep on their oversized memory foam mattress. _

_A quick glance at the clock told Sarah that it was nearly midnight. Where was Phoebe? Where was Paul? Both her oldest daughter and her husband should have been home hours ago. Just as Sarah had gotten up to call both of them, the doorbell rang._

Thank, God_, Sarah thought, speeding to answer the door, "Where the hell have you –" Mrs. Luis froze midsentence. Her mouth didn't even move to make amends. _

_Standing in the doorway was her husband's partner – no husband. _

"_Good afternoon, Sarah, can I come in?" Detective Grover attempted to smile, but only succeeded in a sickly cloying mockery of one. _

"_O-of course …." Sarah took a gulp, nothing good could ever come at a police officer standing at her doorway at midnight. _

Detective Grover didn't stay for much longer after delivering the news. It wasn't something he normally did, told wives their husband was dead, but this had been a special case – or so Sarah guessed. The hardest part wasn't explaining what had happened to her daughter …. _"Phoebe, come here," Sarah didn't use the voice she normally used when Phoebe came home at two in the morning; it was softer, more loving. "Detective Grover came by earlier – "_

_ "Whatever he said was a lie, the cop let me off the hook it …. Where's dad?" Phoebe's words came out fast, but Sarah barely even heard the first part. The moment Phoebe mentioned her father's name, Sarah lost it. The tears spilled down her cheeks, coming as quickly as the Indonesian rain. One second her face was a mask of calm, the next she was a mess. Phoebe wrapped her arms around her mother, "What happened?" Phoebe's normally power and confidence was gone, replaced by raw fear._

_ "The man had a hostage, Paul was trying to negotiate with him … make him see sense – he had been the person to find him ….. but then he snapped," Sarah let out a short, lifeless, laugh," I guess he never was the best negotiator …." Sarah hiccupped. _

Sarah nearly jumped out of her seat; the car behind her had finished dropping off its children and had honked at her to hurry up. Apparently Sarah wasn't the only one who had to hurry to work.


	2. Ch1: Sadist

I walked out of the office with my heavy yellow cardstock schedule. Gotham High School was a completely different place compared to its suburban counterpart. When I had walked in I was confident, my bright yellow heels clicking as I tried to walk around the long lines that seemed to be waiting for something – as to what they were waiting for I hadn't the slightest idea. Quickly I was stopped by a police officer. A real one … not those stupid rent-a-cops they tried to scare us with at my last one – the ones on the bikes.

"Where exactly do you think you're going, miss?" the officer was overly large, he towered over me (though, granted it was not a difficult task to do) and looked like he could easily snap me in half.

But I just smiled half-pleasantly. I had grown up a police officer's daughter; my dad had probably been in charge of him at one point. If my dad's Sergeant hadn't scared me, this crack pot wouldn't. "School, surprisingly. I wonder if you've heard of it. It's this huge, hellish place with a bully here and there, annoying teachers and very strange friends. Now if you'd excuse me, I have to be at "_school" _in about fifteen minutes and I would not want to be late, especially on my first day."

I made to walk around the guard, but again, the big lout stopped me – this time forcefully. His palm collided with my shoulder, taking me by surprise, simultaneously coupled with a very cliché (if you ask me) "No you're not."

I was temporarily unbalanced, and as my feet tried to gain back my balance, my high heel decided it no longer felt the need to support me and my whole body collapsed as my ankle rolled.

Of course, the guard smugly thought he had managed to knock me down and laughed a little.

"Didn't your mother ever teach you not to hit a lady?"

"Ladies? I don't see none around. Just a smartass teenager who needs to go and wait likes the rest of 'em."

"Lovely grammar," I muttered to myself as I got up and brushed myself off.

"What'd you say?" The cop growled, reaching out to grab my arm … I danced away.

"Love you to, sweet cakes." I smirked and began to walk to the lines outside the school.

My eyes caught those of another loner. Unlike those around him, he wasn't talking animatedly to his friends, nor was he standing on his tip toes, peering over or waving his arms looking for a friend. He was just standing there; if anything trying not to be seen. The boy had seen the whole thing, and he was smiling, evilly amused by the whole situation.

And that was how I came to dread the very thought of coming back here tomorrow without even going to my first class.

I sat in the back of my US History class, my third period, listening to the same dates and facts I had heard since elementary school. The teacher was a nice enough woman … she was short, slender, in her mid forties. But she had a heavy Pennsylvania accent that grated on my ears. I had been shoved into the back corner of the room, at just such of an angle to prevent me from seeing the whole bottom half of the board. Next to me were three, for lack of a better word, dumbasses.

The first girl was very blonde …. And very fake. Her blonde hair had been bleached to the point of not being able to call it hair, there were small strands of frizz sticking out at random angles, and her high bony tale looked like it would snap in two if she so much as tried to take it out. Her blackish brown roots stood out like a Mormon at a frat party. She had very dark eyes, and wore false eyelashes. I couldn't tell much more about her eyes, though, because they were hidden behind thick rimmed, round glasses. She wore a very bad foundation that was already coming off; I could see the bumps and redmarks on her chin already. From my seat I could hear the smacking as her lips chewed some form of gum like a cow chewing tobacco – loud, wide and spitting every time she attempted to speak intelligently – and when, more often than not, she spoke unintelligently, too, for that matter. The ribbed tank top she was wearing had Hollister stitched across the front and she wore an extremely tight pair of Bermuda shorts. To be honest, I would have been fine with her dress if it had flattered her. But it didn't. It fit her in a very grotesque manner. Her bra was a sized to small, visibly squeezing her chest into – for want of a better word – a unibood. One of which was beginning to fall out. The shirt was too small, too. It stopped about two inches short and showed off her love handles and stretch marks … it would not have surprised me if this girl had had a kid or two at her house. She wasn't fat, per say, she just wasn't in shape and didn't dress to flatter herself. It seemed the only flattering piece of clothing she wore was the shorts, and even they didn't do her the best, they sat barely on her hips, and when she leaned forward I got a nice view of her significantly whiter ass.

The next girl was significantly prettier … or sluttier, it could go both ways. Her hair was a natural ginger color, and permed into submission. I could actually smell the product and heat damage in it from three feet away. She too wore glasses; these were thick rimmed too, but a more rectangular shape. Her hair was stuffed into a ponytail at the top of her head and two perfectly straight pieces hung down over her forehead. She wore no make up on her face whatsoever, and even though she was almost as fair skinned as I am, she had little red bumps all over her face. Her South-Pole sweater had outgrown her years ago … it stopped several inches short and she had cut the sleeves off in an attempt to keep it fitting her. The sweater was ragged and faded, a dull maroon in color with lettering that had once been metallic. But her sweater was the only thing that was obviously old. She wore a bright gold pendant, a long heavy chain with an oversized dollar sign. On her fingers was a single ring that covered her middle and ring fingers with miniature brass knuckles where the jewels would have been. Her sweater and the white muscle shirt that she wore underneath it were both tucked into a large gold belt that took up almost the full length of her short shorts. Those shorts were the kind of shorts she could imagine in a bad porno or on a stripper – just denim underwear. On her feet the girl wore heavy, gold, drag queen heels (I vaguely noted that I had a similar pair at home). Her voice carried easily, and she felt the need to shout at the oddest of moments. She may have been as white as I was, but she seemed to consider herself a regular "gangster".

The third girl seemed unreal, like a photo in an ad for depression medication or a character on a reality TV show. Everything about her was sharp and angular, her dark brown hair was cut in a pixie cut, with what little hair she had coming to a point as a more feminine Mohawk. Her eyes were thin and long, and her heavy eyeliner came off to a point a little under a centimeter past her outer corners giving any onlooker the impression that they too were angled towards her nose. On the left hand side of her crooked nose (obviously broken at some point, and set very badly) she wore a triangular ring. She had naturally high cheekbones, another feature she chose to exaggerate with make up and piercings, this time long streaks of reddish brown blush and a short bar through her upper cheekbone. Her entire face came to a point almost directly beneath contrastingly full lips, painted a dark red. In addition to her sharp features, her attire kept in turn with the triangle them. She wore a black sequined bralet – a large bra that had been extended beyond her normal breast line (about midway to her belly button) – with, what else, a triangle holding the two cups together. Her white shorts were very short on her legs, but came up so high as to cover up her belly button. Between the bralet and her shorts only about an inch of skin showed on her stomach. Her wrists were covered in bangles and almost every finger had a silver ring of varying shapes, sizes and gemstones (mostly in cool colors: blue, green, purple, etc) on them. On her feet she wore Alexander McQueen heels – whether they were knock offs, or the real thing I hadn't the faintest. Contrary to her loud appearance and her obnoxious friends, she was almost silent, I honestly believed she was mute at first. But she did talk, only when she seemed to think her input was needed, or to steer the conversation where she wanted it to go. Though her words were scarce, the other two seemed to take each one with intense value. Her jokes were always followed with loud laughter, not only from her two companions, but from anyone around who just happened to be listening (she seemed to know everyone). And her quieter comments seemed to always be agreed with … or at least, no one dared otherwise.

My oversized purse – a Mary Poppin's bag, my friend had once described it as – sat on my lap, my hands typing messages to my friends in the next town. In my mind's eye I could see my best friend, Gina, in an almost identical position as me typing her replies, laughing at my jokes, and smirking as she thought of her own. I was lost in my own little world, trying my best to ignore the smacking of gum and loud, over zealous cussing that was taking place behind me, when one of the girls, most likely the third, called out my name … or a form of it, "Hey, new girl!" I didn't respond.

"Hey, new chick," I clearly recognized the voice of the redhead. How could I not? She had been on the verge of shouting whenever she got just a little excited.

The third time was the trick. The blonde's voice was whiney and annoying. "Hey! Bitch! Are you deaf or something?" I felt something hit me in the shoulder; it was too heavy to be a piece of paper, but definitely not something huge like a text book or a binder. Maybe a pencil or and eraser …. Even a make up applicator. I suspected the latter of the three.

I whipped around, my last nerve was just a trampoline and the blonde had finally broke a hole in it. "Surprisingly, no. And, this may come as a shock to you, but everyone else around you is just as not deaf as I am and we can clearly hear you smacking your gum like a fucking cow," I turned to the redhead, "Your voice carries just fine at a normal level. God, I haven't been to shows quieter than you. Did you know, some of us actually come to school to learn?" I whispered furiously, attempting to avoid a scene.

The girls were quiet for a second. Had they thought I was mute or something?

"And pull down your shirt, no one wants to see that," I added as an after thought.

"What the hell is your problem?" the redhead shouted. By now, the entire class had gone silent and had turned around to look at the new girl and the apparent queens of the school quarreling.

"Who the heck do you think you are? Fuck. You're one to talk. Sitting there texting. I'm sorry but '_Did you know, some of us actually come to school to learn?_' It's only a smartass remark if you're actually smart about it. Get off your fucking high horse. I'm not one for violence, but if I have to kick an ass, I will."

"Ladies …." The teacher trailed off in an attempt to distract us, but not daring to get in between us.

"Are you threatening me? I'd like to see you try. What are you going to get your bitches to hold me down. You get off you fucking high horse. Not everyone is going to sit there and bow at your feet and think you the funniest person in the world or the most intelligent. Not everyone is going to put up with your shit. Consider me one of them."

"You fucking bitch, you don't talk to my chika like that." The red head hopped over the desk, and through a punch. I tried to duck, but the close quarters of the desks did not prove very cooperative. Her fist landed square on my shoulder, causing me to cry out in pain. Everyone around had given us a wide berth, and there was a steady chanting of "Fight, fight, fight …"

"Fucking coward." The redhead growled. I almost laughed …. But I guess it was kind of true. I ducked and weaved from her clawing. _You can't get suspended on the first day of school, Phoebe. Maybe the third or fourth, but not the first. Think of your mother. She's already so stressed out. Don't be an idiot like you always are. _

Somewhere in the chaos, the teacher must have called for help, because through the two doors of the classroom came two cops. They cleared out the onlookers, and grabbed hold of the redhead. One of them, the same one from earlier that morning, grabbed my shoulder and pulled me up. (I had fallen over the desk and was no laying half on the chair, half off.)

I took a look at the room full of my shocked classmates. What had even started the fight? Did something start the fight? I didn't remember.

And then, as I was being walked out of the classroom (the officer obviously didn't believe I knew the way to the office), I met his eyes for the second time. It could have been mere coincidence. Or it could have been some higher power invoking the hands of fate (whether God, Buddha or the The ceiling cat, I didn't know … they were all the same to me). The boy smiled slightly; he seemed amused at my humiliation.

Sadist.

He was all arms and legs. The very act of sitting in his desk seemed awkward on him; he was towering a good three feet over it. His long legs were stuffed into the desk; his right ankle rested on his left knee and his right knee was twisted into an odd angle the could not be comfortable. His elbow was resting on his desk and his head sat slumped onto his elbow. He had medium brown hair that was in desperate need of a cut. Several strands of his unruly hair fell into his eyes and he seemed to constantly need to through his head back to keep it out of his glasses. His glasses, they were large and round, almost like my Aviators which I had perched on top of my head, but the lenses were clear and the center was held together with duct tape. The boy wore a baggy black button up shirt. The shirt was buttoned up to his neck (an act that most likely would have been most likely very uncomfortable if the shirt had fit properly) and, even though the sleeves were rolled up to well past his elbows, the cuffs were still buttoned. He had attempted to tuck in the oversized shirt, but failed spectacularly at it, leaving him with only his shirt tails tucked in, and the front flaps hanging out. The jeans that the shirt was tucked into had long outgrew the boy. They were extremely tight, and only reached his ankle. He had clearly used them time and time again, as there were holes and grass stains … even a couple of dark brown stains that I could only imagine were blood. He covered his feet with dirty low top sneakers, with several more holes in the outer layer, and a small hole that had been made through both layers. On the foot that he had put up, I could see the soles had split in half.

**A/N Yes I do realize how much of a Mary-Sue she seems at this point. And I do apologize. She'll get better. I swear. There's not much I could do to this chapter to really change it, in my opinion, but in the future she'll be less ... whatever it is that's bothering me so. To the drawing board! **

**PS, anyone know piercings really well? Wanna help me? I'm want to know what the technical term for the one on the middle cartilage in your nose, the one that looks like a bull's ring. I have an idea, but I really don't want to be wrong and have people like "How does she know that? O.o" and … yeah. **_**Awkward ….**_


End file.
